14.08.2005 PK ARCHIVE FEB 99 +++ The Goa Experience - Partying in a Developing Country |
 Arriving there in the main season (around Christmas and New Year's), our first target was Anjuna, famous for its flea market, which gained its reputation in the Sixties, when hasheesh or charas were sold here in pounds. The majority of the parties are taking place in its vicinity, too, making it a nice place to start. The Shore Bar is "the" place to meet people, but we only found a hedonistic circle of returned Goa- veterans. We were not ‘London’ enough to have an idea of how things "happen" here, but we were neither ‘Indian’ enough to be accepted and left alone by the local sellers. Spotting every fair- skinned Goa- virgin from a mile's distance, they hassled us relentlessly, wishing us a "Happy Christmas" and even calling us "Rodney" and "Delboy" in real Cockney accents in prospect of potential business. The Goans depend on Westeners as their most important source of income, the tourists' money making Goa one of the wealthiest states of India. Goa showed the contradiction of reality and the ideal perfectly: the inhabitants of Goa, although despising drugs out of religious reasons, did not even mind making money out of drug abuse. On the market, a six-year old girl explained the interested how to use a chillum and sellers openly approached every foreigner, urging us to purchase Hashish, Charas, Ecstacy, MDMA, LSD, Cocaine, H, Brown, Opium, to name but a few. These people are usually paid by police to arrange a nice arrestment. A word to the wise, however: drug consumption in Goa, as anywhere, is like pissing--don’t do it in public. Buy from “safe” Londoners at London prices if you have to, or face high fines (up to $ 400). It is recommendable to dig out some cash to prevent a ten-year sentence in an Indian prison. Go for the “legal” highs available in the pharmacies. We found them well stocked to cater for the party-goers’ needs and desires. There were Westeners everywhere, trying to find "party enlightenment", a game that kept about 200 motorbikes on the road every night as nobody exactly knew what was going on, or where to find it. To watch the whole mob of crazy Israelis, reckless Germans and tattooed Brits on Enfields, driving around in circles, was an entertaining activity in itself. It was going to be New Moon soon; we could see the skinny sickle hanging on the purple sky whilst our will to find the party started to wane too. Finally, we accidentally ended up on a trance event in the Bamboo Forest, and also had our first encounter with the local police. In addition, we learned why so many of the rumoured parties did not take place in the end: police halted them straight away. So much about the free-and-easy reputation concerning drugs Goa gained in its history: being a policeman in Goa is one of the most lucrative jobs available for the locals today. Everybody (Indians as well as Westeners, but they pay--as usual--four times more than the locals) will have to pay sooner or later to make them look away. 60,000 rupees are the price for a rave without police presence. Apparently, police and legislation became really tough in the last few years in order to stop the party business to clean Goa for the mainstream tourism. Eventually, only the two main events, Christmas and New Year’s Eve, were allowed to take place without disturbance. The economy of Goa started to go down, as the income of thousands totally depends on the baksheesh system and the party business. The Christmas party takes place in the Bamboo Forest again, Sound Conspiracy, an offshoot of Spiral Tribe plays hard, chest-thumping techno, a real alternative to the predominant acid-trance rinse. Another novelty is the flock of beggar families, reminding us that we are celebrating the birth of The Saviour in a third- world country. Many party- goers complain that not enough action had been taken “to keep these people away”. A girl advises me confidentially: “Just say no”. I am feeling week. Shocked by the general attitude, we spend the whole night trying to see the rave through the eyes of two eight year-old Indian beggar kids, Balarengdeia and Rangyama: we are white aliens that reign their small world for a night like a strange dream. According to Primaud and Simon of Anjuna Narcotics, the main organisers, it is just a question of how good you are in playing the game with a corrupt system and how much you are willing to pay. Therefore, there will always be a party in the land of parties. In the triangle of Baga, Anjuna and Vagator, we hoped to find the Goa where no local will look at you with greedy eyes. Heading up North to Arambol, we were still not able to glimpse the “unspoiled” land we hoped to find. We ended up living in a tree house in Morjim, erected by Gopal for a Londoner who drives a custom- made Enfield and whose girlfriend works for Cosmo. Finally, on the border to Maharashtra, we entered a region full of hostile peasants who neither wanted our money nor our company. Somehow, Goa reminded me of a decadent playground for the - in the eyes of the inhabitants - incredibly rich Westeners: anything goes upon waving a wad. Freedom and abuse of such are hard to distinguish here, and in case the own conscience does not impose a limit, nobody will. Money takes the last bit of our responsibility to use our common sense. Goa, resembling a paradise, is a place where two cultures clash, but money is the language that every culture seems to speak. Returning the following year, things had changed for the worse. The parties were made illegal: it was now forbidden to play music after 10, which meant that they now started at 4 in the morning and went on all day. The countless Israelis that occupied Goa and pushed each other off cliffs were gone- apparently the Israeli government got all the parents on a plane to rescue their precious children who were lost in the drug craze! Actually, Goa was a lot more peaceful and quiet. Nevertheless, I was ready to leave the secure and westernised Goa behind forever to find the real India. Wherever this is. Boulenat, you alien foreigners out there. And Om. Written by Katrin Richter |
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